


Playing Dirty

by BummedOutWriter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Draco Malfoy, Competition, Healers, Humor, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Mpreg, Plot Twists, Publicity, Quidditch, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Rivalry, Scandal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 06:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16487639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BummedOutWriter/pseuds/BummedOutWriter
Summary: The media was obsessed with Malfoy for his controversial behavior, flagrant outfits, questionable posse, and sexually ambiguous behavior. And then there were the public brawls and shouting matches with his famous rivals. It was always a bit anticlimactic, to be honest. The three never seemed to do enough damage to get suspended. Neville generally attributed it to their combined lack of musculature, being seekers and all, but it was starting to get suspicious.





	Playing Dirty

**Author's Note:**

> For those who don't know:  
> The League Cup is a more local/domestic competition.  
> The World Cup is the larger, international competition.

“Got this, Wood?” Malfoy roughly shoved the team captain even though he was half Oliver’s size. Malfoy had a narrow, seeker’s body. “Your fucked up shoulder isn’t going to screw us over again?”

The other Puddlemere players slowly came to surround the two, all in various states of undress in the team locker room. They chuckled and whispered, keen about the budding confrontation. Wood’s towel slipped down a notch, but he clutched his shoulder instead.

Wood made a faux-moue of pain but then dropped it and grinned. “Already good as new.” He rolled the aforementioned body part. “Our brilliant healer patched me up, didn’t you Nev?”

Neville offered a wan smile from where he stood out of the way of the players.

“Still, after that last game, maybe it’s time you thought of retirement,” said Malfoy snidely. Without fail, he added stakes to every situation. He had an anxiety-inducing intensity about him that had only gotten worse since he’d graduated from Hogwarts five years prior.

“Nah, this baby’s got another couple of years in it, I reckon,” said Wood, still stretching his arm.

Malfoy’s hand twitched at his hip as though to grasp his wand, had it been holstered there. “Don’t fuck with my career, Wood—” He started forward, but Granger quickly got between them.

“Draco, does this mean you won’t be distracted by certain conflicts of interest?” she snapped, eyes flashing as though calculating his inadequacies. “Not to mention your balance issues during the Tornadoes match last week. Or did you think I hadn’t noticed?”

Malfoy sent her a scathing look, his cheeks reddening almost imperceptibly. “If you have something to say, Granger—”

“Enough,” said Roberts walking in, pushing through the half-naked players. The team owner was a plump man whose love of Quidditch seemed to surpass the considerable profits the Puddlemere team brought in. “Malfoy, you starting trouble again?”

Malfoy said nothing as he continued to glare at Granger.

Roberts’s smile was a fond one. “I hope you’re all being accommodating to Ms Granger.” Hermione was the latest in a long string of Regulations and Liability Agents. The job had a decidedly high turnover rate. “She’s even made a commitment to observing every match. Isn’t that great?” Despite his enthusiasm, Roberts wore a pained look. He ushered Granger out of the fray of testosterone. “Wood if you will?”

“Right,” said Wood, rubbing his hands together with blithe disregard for his ever-slipping towel. “We’re up against the Cannons again. As you know, those bastards have been on an almost-supernatural winning streak since they acquired Potter. We have never won against them.”

There were growls and grumbles; muttered obscenities.

“But don’t let that get to your head,” Wood continued. “We are the reigning champions! Don’t forget that! Potter has been carrying his whole team, and we have to exploit that fact. They are nothing without him!”

Malfoy was already fully dressed in his Quiddith leathers. He was gripping his broom so tight his knuckles were turning pallid. Neville didn’t like the deranged sparkle in his eyes. Not for the first time, Neville wondered if he was going to take Harry out.

*

"Perns here with _Quidditch Nightly_. I am joined today by Matthew Abrams, chief correspondent from the _Prophet_. As we wait for the game to start up, I'd like to discuss this Potter/Malfoy feud, which is just getting _personal_ lately. Malfoy's contract with Puddlemere is due to expire at the end of the season. Meanwhile, Mr. Potter's contract with the Cannons was conceived at a time when the team was desperate to stay in the league. It is laughably flimsy with trivial penalties. The big news this week is that an unnamed source leaked an offer letter from Puddlemere to _Harry Potter_."

"I'm sure Malfoy was not pleased to hear about _that_."

"Doubtful, Abrams, doubtful. Despite Malfoy's impressive track record, and his being the current number one seeker in the league--"

" _Current_ being the key word. And it's hardly definitive, he and Ginevrva Weasley have been flip-flopping for years."

"-it seems that his team finds him to be replaceable."

"Potter hasn't lost a game, Perns."

"But he's still fairly new to the professional Quidditch scene. I mean, let him finish a _season_ before we get ahead of ourselves."

"He's freakin _Harry Potter._ "

"That _is_ a good point. Now how do you imagine Malfoy reacted to this news? A bitter confrontation with the team manager?"

There was a pause. "To be perfectly honest, I think Malfoy will do everything in his power to legally _murder_ Mr. Potter."

"Well then." Perns cleared his throat.

*

Harry was coasting along through the match, practically looking bored. Draco knew he was buying right into it, but his ire usually worked in his favor.

“Got this Potter? Not gonna fall again?”

“I haven’t fallen since Hogwarts,” Harry said, his eyes burning as if to add, _no thanks to you._

“I heard about your last practice.”

“How could you have heard about my practice?” Harry indulged in a mocking drawl, whipping around to face Draco. Then he paused, jade eyes widening. “Is that a spider on your collar?”

Draco tensed. “What?”

“I think it is. An actual spider.”

Draco may or may not have famously jumped into a bog to detach a spider from his robes six months ago. It had made the front page of the _Prophet._

“The only way a spider would be at this altitude is if you brought it here you sick bastard!” Draco interjected logic into the argument.

“Looking pale, Draco.”

It was only then that Draco realized that Harry was not looking directly at him, but over his shoulder, towards the Cannons goals. Without warning, Harry shot forward, his hand extended as he swiped for something in the air.

In a spontaneous reaction, Draco twisted and clipped the back of Harry’s broom with the front of his. It was so subtle that it was unnoticeable—though Draco would take the red card if he had to. It threw Harry off his trajectory for the snitch, the winged ball brushing his fingertips but fluttering off. Harry’s new course sent him reeling face-first towards a bludger, but at the last minute, he threw himself off his broom, holding on by just one arm. The radical maneuver caused a collective gasp amongst the crowd, and even Draco found his jaw hanging slack.

They hardly noticed as the errant bludger smashed into Wood’s shoulder until the Keeper howled and fell.

*

They stood in the medical bay, facing each other, fists clenched, both dripping venom.

“Going for our Keeper now, Potter?” Malfoy snapped.

Cameras flashed. Reporters murmured. No one thought to pull them apart.

“You’re not serious?” Harry retorted.

“Oliver Wood is a good friend of mine!” Malfoy alleged.

“He’s _my_ friend. And I was hardly at fault for that bludger.”

Malfoy drew his wand, but Harry caught his wrist, and the two fought for control in a writhing struggle. The reporters were practically rabid, pressing closer with their cameras as sparks shot from Malfoy’s wand. With a sigh, Neville slipped into the examination room and closed the door.

Oliver was sitting up in bed. He offered Neville a weary smile. “This fucking shoulder.”

Neville shrugged. “Potter, right?” he said tepidly.

“Malfoy,” Oliver grumbled.

Neville bit his grin. “Malfoy,” he agreed.

They smiled at each other as though it was a secret that Malfoy was intolerable.

“At least he saved us the loss,” Neville offered.

“He’ll be the death of us all,” Oliver said with melancholy.

Neville snorted. “Let me see that shoulder.”

The break had been fixed by the field medics, though the more intricate damages had been reserved for Neville, who had better familiarity with the patient’s anatomy. Neville healed the damaged tendons with gentle trails of his wand, knitting everything up, even the capillaries. Finally he summoned a salve from a shelf: a combination of dittany, fireseed, and the muggle plant, devil’s claw. “Give it the night,” he murmured.

“Nev, you’re the only reason I haven’t been traded or demoted by now.”

“Nonsense,” Neville responded.

The door opened a crack, and Hannah Abott poked her head in. “Everyone decent?” she joked as she slipped into the room. Hannah was a journalist with Witch Weekly.

“Oh, Harry and Malfoy are outside,” Neville said.

“I came to see how our Keeper is doing,” she responded.

“I’ll survive,” said Oliver valiantly.

Hannah beamed at him in a way that looked genuine, until she overtly redirected her attention. “You’ve been avoiding my owls, Nev.”

Neville felt his face warm. “Right…that interview.”

“You promised,” she intoned.

Neville flushed worse. “I could try to get you together with Malfoy, you know? Or Oliver, I’m sure, is willing.”

Everyone loved those two. They boosted ticket sales just by showing up. The media was obsessed with Draco— _Save Brooms, Ride Dragons_ —Malfoy. He was known for his controversial behavior, flagrant outfits, questionable posse, and sexually ambiguous behavior. And then there were the public brawls and shouting matches with his famous rivals. It was always a bit anticlimactic, to be honest. The three never seemed to do enough damage to get suspended. Neville generally attributed it to their combined lack of musculature, being seekers and all, but it was starting to get suspicious.

“Sure.” Oliver nodded vaguely as he watched them with a hint of amusement.

Wood was another. He was less controversial, but had a healthy popularity with the female base. Someone seemed to get a snap of him every time he got his shirt off. The media didn’t even bother with the wood-puns anymore.

Hannah shook her head. “You’re the best sport’s healer England has seen in years. Probably decades. You’re godsend to your players, and your combination of muggle and magical treatment is revolutionary. I’ve been following your career, Nev,” she trailed forward. Neville unconsciously took a step back. He connected with a wall, and he felt himself freeze, felt his body heat redistribute itself as his pulse pounded in his eardrums.

She was trailing her pointer finger down his soft, untoned torso, when Oliver gave some emphatic coughs.

Neville snapped out of his reverie. “I should—erm—check on my players,” he said, removing Hannah’s hand from his chest, holding it longer and tighter than it made sense to. He then fled to the locker rooms, where he tried to catch his breath. Unsurprisingly, it was empty. It had been hours since the match had ended in a draw.

He dropped himself to a bench when he started to hear…noises. Groans. It sounded as though someone was in pain.

Neville walked around some lockers, to the back corner of the room, where he froze in shock, his face turning scarlet.

A shirtless Harry Potter had Malfoy pinned to the wall, his leathers pushed low on his hips. Malfoy didn’t seem to be dressed at all, but his gloves were still on. His eyes were closed, head thrown back, face flushed and hair disheveled as he let Harry suck his neck. Legs clamped tightly about Harry’s bronze hips, it was the blonde who was releasing the poorly-restrained groans, groans that seemed so uncharacteristic of him, as he submitted to his rival.

Neville's throat emitted a choking noise, causing the two seekers to freeze. Before Neville could see how they world react, he turned on his heel and staggered off.

*

Several days later, Draco was sprawled on his front in bed at home, eying the garish silk of the crimson comforter, and resenting how good it looked with the mahogany furniture. He felt languid and warm, and his back was sore. He sighed in relief when the team masseuse apparated into the room. Another perk from Puddlemere. He snorted. “Go ahead.”

The masseuse got started, thankfully, on his tense lower back. Draco started to doze.

The stress was getting to him. That, and the training. It was all cumulating, and things were just getting worse. He was unbalanced on his broom, in a way that he couldn’t adjust to naturally because his center of gravity seemed to keep shifting, sort of _fucking with him_. It was unnerving, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Maybe he was just going as mad as everyone already thought he was.

“Turn over,” said the masseuse.

Draco obliged. “Not here.” He motioned to his chest. “Or here.” He laid his hand on his stomach, and let it settle there.

He knew he was getting soft there. It was the middle of the season and his body was betraying him. Not to mention his contract with Puddlemere would be over after the Cup. “Can you turn on the wireless?”

He felt a surge of magic beside him, then the sports station came on, by default.

He closed his eyes and listened as Weaslette rambled her way through a press conference, her girl-bravado really shining through. There were slipped obscenities, rants about “blondie’s” inadequacies, derogatory remarks about Harry’s cock, and a random shout-out to Viktor Krum. Just when Draco thought he might die of boredom, she decided to get to the point.

 **“This is a message out to Potter and Malfoy.”** She drew a harsh breath. **“I propose the seeker who doesn’t make it to the League Cup finals takes the rest of the season off.”**

Draco’s cheek twitched. The World Cup was this season. He was being eyed to start, just as Harry and Ginny were. “Not going to happen,” he grumbled under his breath. “Change the station,” he ordered the masseuse.

She did so.

 **“Here I am with Mr. Harry Potter walking out of his local grocery store. It looks like he has some broccoli and chicken—mm, delicious. Mr. Potter, a word?”** There was some audible shuffling, the reporter panting heavily as though he had been running. **“Mr. Potter, that was quite a press conference with Ginerva Weasley just now. Being that you’re still quite new on the pro-Quidditch scene, do you have the gall to accept her challenge?”**

 **“What? Yeah okay,”** said Harry, in a way that conveyed he had no idea what the reporter was talking about.

Draco threw his arm across his eyes. _Well, fuck._

*

There was a lot of tension amongst the rival seekers. The stakes were getting higher every day. Of course, with Harry onboard for the challenge, Malfoy had had no choice but to accept as well.

Neville mainly just focused on trying to pretend that he hadn’t walked in on the two of them having sex. Harry certainly was.

“That was such a dangerous maneuver at your last game Harry, it was hardly legal,” Hermione was saying.

“But it was,” Harry responded with amusement. “Legal, that is.”

“It was reckless, Harry.”

The five of them were gathered together in Harry’s favorite bar. It was crowded that evening, thanks to Harry’s being there. But he didn’t mind, tonight. He was enjoying himself, unwinding before his Exhibition match in the morning with Bulgaria.

“It would have been worse if I got hit by that bludger,” Harry reasoned.

“The move was brilliant, mate,” said Ron, wrapping his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Hermione’s just worried about you.”

Hermione sniffed. “Don’t even get me started on Draco…”

“I think he’s alright,” Luna piped in airly. “He carries well. And his magic is quite protective of the little one.”

The group looked at her with no comprehension of her remark.

“Right, Luna,” said Ron politely, before returning his attention to Harry. “Don’t think I didn’t see ferret’s foul in that match. He was practically trying to take you out.”

“He was trying to block my win, which he did.” Harry gave a crooked smile.

“Still, the ref should have called him out on that…”

There was a flash of red that drew Neville’s attention. Ginny Weasley had arrived with a couple of her Harpy girlfriends. _Bollocks._ Neville hoped that Harry wouldn’t notice. He tried to relax and plastered his face with a smile.

“The situation with Wood sort of distracted things,” Harry was saying. “Nev, you worked wonders on his shoulder.”

Neville shrugged. “I try.” He could see the red swaying about in his periphery. “So uh, how are you feeling about your chances with Krum?”

Harry was always composed and quiet, but he could never hide the way his face lit up. He was undeniably excited to play against the legend he’d watched in the World Cup almost ten years prior.

Neville saw that Harry was drinking water, not alcohol or even butterbeer. He had to be in top condition for the match. World Cup officials were going to be watching and the game could be a huge factor in choosing the starting players after the League competition was over.

As Harry talked, Neville found himself absently analyzing his physique, as was his wont, being a sports healer and all. Harry was wearing a fitted muggle polo shirt, revealing that he was a bit muscled for a seeker. Neville generally didn’t permit Malfoy to get that large. Then again, Malfoy had gained some weight recently. Neville had been holding off on talking to him about it, hoping the issue would just correct itself. He knew how vain the blonde was, and how much pressure he was under.

As if on cue, Neville saw a flash of white blonde. He turned to the bar to see Malfoy and Parkinson there, Parkinson sitting and Malfoy standing. She was flirtatiously running her heel up and down his calf and they seemed immersed in playful discussion.

 _Crap._ Harry hadn’t noticed, thank goodness. Neville just had to ensure that he never did. The place was too plebian for Parkinson anyway. She and Malfoy would finish their drinks then depart.

Neville took several gulps of his firewhiskey.

Soon Hannah greeted them, in passing, but she hung out by their table, leaning against it and talking to Neville. Ron brought another round of drinks, and Harry went off to the loo.

“Strictly off the record…” said Hannah. By then she was rubbing her leg on his, almost the way Pansy had done to Malfoy. But this was more sensual than playful. She reached down to stroke his hand. “…when are you going to ask me out?”

Neville absently took her hand in his. He’d had some time to process the idea of this. “Off the record?” he joked, his heart speeding up. “Hannah, I…” He paused. “Where’s Harry?” He abruptly noticed that the brunette had not returned.

“In the loo,” said Ron distractedly, not tearing his attention from Hermione.

That had been a while ago. “Excuse me,” he said with remorse as he got up to gaze around the crowded pub. There was no sign of Malfoy or Ginny now either. _Shit._ Hopefully Ginny hadn’t taken Malfoy out back, as she threatened to do continually. He had never seen an uninterrupted brawl between the two, but was fairly certain she would land Malfoy in St Mungos. With that horrifying image flashing in his mind, Neville immediately headed for the back door. On his way, he spotted Ginny standing outside of the loo.

“Erm, Gin, what are you doing?”

“Hi Nev.” She gave him a quick hug. “Just hanging out.” She glanced off dubiously.

It was extremely shady. Neville suspected a conspiracy, but to which player’s detriment? “Um…” There were pounding noises coming from beyond the door. He paled. “Excuse me.”

“I don’t think so,” Ginny warned.

“This is the men’s room.”

“Move along, Nev.”

Neville indeed wanted to walk off, but he found himself dithering. This was his _job_. He didn’t have a vested interest in Harry, but he did in Malfoy at least. And bizarrely enough, Neville had come to truly care about Quidditch. It seemed to dominate his life now. The game was everything, and he felt a sense of loyalty to his players.

Neville steeled himself for the confrontation. As much as he didn’t want to put his neck out for Malfoy, he was professionally inclined to do so. Refusing to be cowed by Ginny Weasley, he whipped out his wand. “Get out of my way, Ginny!” He hoped that on some vague level she would remember that he was a snake-killer and not just a chubby healer.

“Okay, okay.” Ginny threw up her arms and backed away, as though the matter wasn’t worth potential injury.

Neville banged on the bathroom door. There was a pause and some scuffling within before Malfoy answered, and he certainly hadn’t been getting beat up. He was breathless and disheveled, his pupils blown. Barely seeming to notice his robes were on backwards, he blinked at Neville for a moment then crossed his arms. “What?”

“Er…are you okay in there?”

“Quite.”

“Is…Harry in there?”

“Indeed.” Malfoy didn’t even blush, though he was already a bit rosy.

Neville blushed in his stead. Sex before a game was the worst thing players could do to themselves. “He has a match tomorrow,” Neville said, grimacing. “He shouldn’t—”

“You want to stop him?” said Malfoy. He opened the door wider.

“Uh—I—no.” Neville stumbled back and hurried away.

*

Harry lost spectacularly against Bulgaria. 

It was the front page of every wizarding paper. Journalists raved about his outstanding incompetence. Krum had caught the snitch right above Harry’s head.

Malfoy seemed quite content with himself, in the aftermath. He ignored Neville’s reproving looks and refused to acknowledge any mention of his and Harry’s involvement. Neville wondered if it was a weird strategy to disarm Harry, but Malfoy was being coy if these were his tactics. It was odd, because he was usually blatantly aggressive, with no patience for this passive, psychological stuff. And yet it was much more effective. Even Neville was scheduling an appointment with his mind healer.

That day, Malfoy was playing against Ginny and the Harpies. It was proving a long match.

In the third hour, Harry suspiciously wandered onto the sidelines, with impunity. As the Puddlemere reserve players gave him wary looks, Neville offered a tense smile. Harry was really capitalizing on his fame lately. How else could he have gained access to the field when he was neither playing nor affiliated with either of the teams?

The game was getting wearisome. Everyone was tense and impatient. The chasers were playing too evenly to be of any consequence. Finally, there was a snitch-sighting, and things abruptly picked up.

 **“The two seekers are head to head!”** the announcer said excitedly. **“Though Malfoy is slightly closer, and he has a clear lead on Weasley. Ah—a redirect! Malfoy’s not letting up! He’s closing in, he’s inches from catching, aaaaand—“**

Harry clutched his chest and hunched forward, like he was having a heart attack or something. Before Neville could make his way over to him, they were swarmed by reporters determined to document Harry Potter’s final moments.

Cameras redirected from the game to Harry’s dilemma. People were shrieking and crying. Fans flooded the sidelines, pushing through the barriers and stampeding each other. Even the announcer had lost interest in the match.

**“Harry Potter is in distress! Someone help him, for Godric’s sake! SOMEONE HALPPP!”**

Then Harry suddenly straightened and tugged away from groping fingers to cast a quick _sonorous_ on his throat. “Sorry.” His voice echoed throughout the stadium. “Just a bit of...indigestion.”

Neville’s jaw dropped.

With a tangible sense of doom, he slowly lifted his attention back to the game. Ginny was gripping the snitch in her fist, a victorious grin on her face. Malfoy was looking pale and uneasy. He covered his mouth and descended to the grass.

Neville turned again to look at Harry, but by then, he had disappeared.  
When Malfoy touched down on the earth, he leaned down and vomited, right there, with the media recording every half-digested chunk of it. 

Once he was finished, he gripped his broom in both hands and proceeded to smash it to bits.

*

Malfoy sprained his wrist in the process of destroying his multi-million galleon broom. He was due for a physical anyway.

Sitting on the exam table, Malfoy rubbed his left pec and winced. “Everything’s sore,” he grumbled. “I’m getting fat.”

“Well…yes,” Neville agreed.

Malfoy glared at him.

Relieved that he hadn’t been the one to say it, Neville buried his face in Malfoy’s files, going over his present diet and training routine. Everything seemed to be in order. Malfoy must not have been following it properly, or possibly there was a hormone issue going on. He idly fixed Malfoy’s wrist with a flick of his wand.

Malfoy rubbed it and sighed. “Stupid body,” he muttered under his breath. “I could kill Potter. Dammit...he has to die.”

“Mm...” Neville responded.

As Malfoy went on to vocally (and illegally) contemplate the best potions to euthanize the Chosen One, Neville did his best to pretend not to hear the deranged mutterings and evil chuckles.

“Your magical levels are off,” he cut in after running a few diagnostic spells. “Have you been feeling alright?”

Malfoy was surprised. “Fine.” At Neville’s look, he scowled and added, “A little off from the training. Tired. Nauseous. Nothing odd.” He shrugged a shoulder, looking flushed.

“Hmm...” Neville performed more spells, the less standard ones, as he sought out the source of the problem. “What!?” Neville jerked back in shock, colliding with a shelf and causing several books to topple to the floor.

Malfoy eyed him. “What?” he seethed.

Neville coughed and blushed, trying to brush off his overreaction. “Nothing to be concerned with. You um...I’ll send the details in your medical report. Check your mailbox in a bit. But you’re fine. Quite healthy.” _Heh…_

Continuing to give Neville an odd look, Malfoy dropped off the table and headed for the door.

“Do take it easy for now,” Neville squeaked out. "And no heavy lifting!"

Glaring, Malfoy left.

Just an hour later, a resounding “FUCK!” echoed throughout the building and the very souls of its occupants. Neville took retreat in his office, turned off the lights, and curled up under his desk.

He’d rather not incur the wrath of an apoplectic Malfoy, not after he’d placed him on mandatory maternity leave, effective immediately.

*

The following week, Harry was staring off, obviously distracted. His lip curled into a gently smug expression as he shifted out of his reverie.

The Puddlemere management team was huddled together on the opposite side of the table. They resurfaced with rueful eyes and shakes of their heads.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Potter, that offer is the best we can do.”

Harry called their bluff. “With your seeker on leave, I don’t think you’re in any position to deny my salary requirements.”

The management team looked stricken, Roberts especially. He shot a questioning look to Neville, who gulped.

“Mr. Potter, Draco Malfoy’s condition is not public knowledge.”

Harry stood up, wearing the faintest of smirks. “This was a pleasure.” He walked off.

As soon as the door closed behind Harry, the management team fell into frantic, whispered argument. Roberts scribbled something onto a small sheet of paper and passed it to Neville. “He’s your friend, isn’t he?” he hissed. “Get him back in here!”

Neville nodded and hurried off after the brunette. He caught him in the corridor. “Harry! We have another offer!”

Harry turned to him, brows raised.

“How do you know about Malfoy’s pregnancy?” Neville couldn’t help asking.

Harry sighed. “I’m honestly not sure how I didn’t notice it before now. He’s been nauseous and whiny, and his flying’s been rather—”

“Harry?” Neville was intrigued.

“He had to tell me, didn’t he?” Harry said, looking pleased. “He’s my husband after all.”

Neville’s eyes widened. He was left speechless and nonplussed.

Roberts joined them. “Did you show him our new offer?”

Mutely, Neville passed the note to Harry, who quickly perused it.

“That’s what you can afford, then?”

“It’s generous, but we’re willing,” said Roberts proudly.

“Funny. It’s nearly double Malfoy’s salary.”

Roberts looked momentarily abashed. “You didn’t give us much of a choice Mr. Potter.” He laughed jollily, the sound echoing in the empty corridor, and Neville was still too stunned to synthetically join in.

“Mr. Roberts, Puddlemere is the most wealthy team in the League, which is in no small part due to your players’ publicity stunts. And Draco certainly leads in that regard.”

“Well I—”

“Further, Draco won you the League Cup last year,” said Harry with visible irritation. “Yet you’re willing to pay me more just because of my name?”

“Erm—“

“This offer should be about the value we bring to the team, sir, not our status as celebrities. I neither respect nor accept your offer. But I’ll be sure to let Draco know his value...” Harry glanced again at the seven-figure number, “...for when he negotiates the offers he’s gotten from the Tornadoes and Wasps for next season.” Harry gave a wry look, raised his wand, and disappeared.

*

Draco was angry and happy and sort of avoiding him.

Harry thought he was mostly just glad he was allowed to eat stuff besides carrots and celery.

That evening, Draco sat on the back porch and watched Harry fly with blatant envy.

When Harry finished, he joined him there, glaring in jealousy at Draco’s bowl of crisps.

He kissed Draco before he could go hide away with a book or cauldron. He lightly bit the blonde’s bottom lip.

“You have practice in the morning,” Draco murmured.

“Who cares?” Harry countered, intentionally mussing up his husband’s hair.

“Put your career before your cock, Potter.” Draco patted his curls back down.

They shared one more deep kiss before Draco pulled away, but he still allowed Harry to nip his throat. His arms hung and head tilted away as though he was avoiding puppy-licks. His grimace twitched in threat of becoming a smile and Harry continued his ministrations as though his neck was treacle tart.

“You’ll do well in the World Cup,” Draco admitted.

Harry paused, then pulled back. “Erm...sorry.”

“It’s okay. I…I don’t mind it.” Draco cupped the curve of his belly. He allowed the lip-twitch to develop into an actual smile and Harry felt his heart pound on his ribs.

*

Neville bumped into Harry at a press event.

“No offense Neville.” The Boy Who Lived was apologetic. “You were too close to the League heads. And no one really knew besides Ron and Hermione. I admit, it was a bit selfish.”

Neville could accept that. “Is Mal—is Draco doing okay?” he wanted to know.

“He is.” Harry’s face lit up and Neville kicked himself for neglecting it, for always just thinking it was Harry’s love for the competition, and not Malfoy, specifically.

Before anything more could be said between them, Harry was swept off for interviews so Neville headed to his medical conference.

In the days that followed, news about Harry and Malfoy’s baby got out, just as Neville had expected it would. Apparently they had been married for years, documents dug up, certificates uncovered.

There were articles regarding Neville’s incompetence as a healer for missing Malfoy’s condition (Neville flinched whenever he crossed them), and photographic evidence of the rival seekers’ collaborative perfidy. Someone had uprooted snapshots from Auror Weasley’s birthday party. There were images of Malfoy and Ginny laughing together, the redhead burying her head in the blonde’s shoulder. Another photo featured Harry sitting in Malfoy’s lap drinking a butterbeer as they chattered with Hermione, Ginny, and Ron. The picture of the two men sharing an idle kiss, Malfoy pouting and Harry grinning, was the one that was truly causing a stir.

Finally, there were invasive photos documenting Malfoy’s physique in his most recent games; still-shots. Though naturally slim, Malfoy was visibly thicker about his waist. Combined with the balance issues, Neville couldn’t believe he had missed it. But then, male pregnancy was extremely rare, and not the type of thing he routinely tested his players for. It was limited to wizards who were deeply in love and extremely compatible magically.

In the wake of the controversy, Malfoy had disappeared from the public eye, and Harry refused to comment on his personal life when he was pestered about it at press conferences. Ginny was a bit facetious regarding everything but took a similar protocol to Harry’s. The so-called rivalry was veritably dead yet ticket sales were booming.

Neville was still trying to figure out where the feigned rivalry had started. It was convenient, he supposed. Certainly attention-drawing. But it was sort of nice to know that the competitiveness between the three was healthy; not the enmity they made it out to be.

Now the reserve seeker was playing for the Puddlemere team. He had neither Malfoy’s skill nor much chemistry with the other players. Harry had destroyed him in the semifinals, and Neville could imagine that Malfoy was livid. Now it was just the Cannons and the Harpies in the League final. It was sure to be quite the spectacle.

As Neville strolled through, and appreciated, the quiet of Hogsmead during school hours, he continued to muse on things. He thought of how Malfoy was now sidelined by his pregnancy, and Neville couldn’t help wondering if Harry had manipulated that situation the way he had manipulated so many other things. Harry had taken out one if his biggest opponents, leaving Malfoy barefoot and pregnant, _literally_. Neville almost wouldn’t be surprised if it had all been deliberate, a scheme of Harry's; especially considering all the other dirty plays the couple had committed throughout the season.

“Longbottom.”

Neville snapped out if his reverie to notice he was standing directly in front of the two people he had been contemplating. 

Malfoy and Harry were outlandishly hand in hand, and it was very odd not to see them trying to kill each other.

Malfoy’s hair wasn’t slicked back today, but hanging loose around his eyes. His body was looking...rounder. Thankfully, his shoes were on.

“Malfoy—wow.” Neville stared at the prominent bump in Malfoy’s robes.

Malfoy’s cheeks reddened, his shoulders tense. “Yeah, m’actually already five months.” He absently smoothed his hand down over his form. “After I stopped the training and diet regimen, I just sort of popped.”

“The healer said that you still need to put on some more weight,” Harry noted.

Malfoy squeezed Harry’s hand so tightly it looked painful. “Of course,” he bit out as Harry winced.

“So what are you up to, Nev?” Harry changed the subject.

“I’m off to meet Hannah.” Neville swallowed. “How’s—how’s the baby?” He felt a certain degree of personal responsibility.

“She’s doing well,” Harry said, with a fond look at Malfoy. “In perfect health.”

Neville smiled in relief. “How are you feeling?” he asked the blonde.

“You know, fat,” Malfoy grumbled.

“Fat is not an emotion,” Harry mentioned. Neville was stunned by the playfulness of the dynamic.

Malfoy turned to Harry with a bitter smile, yet Neville could see the adoration shining through, and he was not sure how he had ever missed it. “I’ll get you for this, Potter.”

“Doubtless,” Harry mumbled, his hands moving to Malfoy’s waist.

“Next season,” Malfoy promised with a menacing look.

“I look forward to it.”

**The End**


End file.
